


To Be The Single Fox In Your Vineyard

by wingless



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: (no really), (sort of maybe), Banter, Biblical References, Character Study, Dirty Talk, Excessively Flowery Internal Monologue, M/M, Masochism Without Sadism, Oral Sex, Orgasm Control, Pet Play, Power Dynamics, Power Play, but not the kind you'd expect (see title)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 16:02:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19254496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingless/pseuds/wingless
Summary: Cilius makes a noise vaguely like a snort, not looking at you as he resumes writing. "That would make you evenlessof use. A dog can be trained to hunt. What use do you expect me to find in a harmless, toothless pup?"And that's the question you've been waiting for. A smile slowly creeping up your face, you walk up to his side and lean in until the tip of your nose brushes against his hair."Anythingyou want, love," you purr into his ear. "I'll do whatever you want. I'mverywell-trained, you know; I'll sit and stay and heel and fetch and roll over andcome—" You pull back away slightly to wink at him, you know,ju—stin case he doesn't get it, at which he rolls his eyes. "—on your command, and whine and bark for you all you like. I'mobedient,too; I always listen to my master, and only ever act on my master's commands. And, even better, since I'm such a clever pup, I can learn new ones, too. I'll do anything you need a puppy to do and more. I'll be the best puppy a puppy can be!""Will you shit on the carpet too?" Is the answer you get, dry, disaffected, and you laugh. "That was not a joke."





	To Be The Single Fox In Your Vineyard

Cilius' office isn't like any of his other choice of dwellings. Your creator's room is always dark even in daylight, shutters over the windows, all openings sealed and the cold air you breathe artificial. And always _messy_. Messy with odd items and trinkets, with clothes that are never worn, variations on robes that you've never seen him in, bedsheets that are never made and desks cluttered with odd items. The clutter makes his wide, spacious room that's built to be big enough to take in all of him feel cramped and narrow, like it tries to make anyone who comes inside claustrophobic.

You, personally, love the intimate vibe it gives; like it's a little world of its own. And it suits him, a dark, secluded, chaotic place, that seems to reject all that tries to come from the outside, not checking to see if it's friend or foe. The darkness like that of his own exquisite soul, littered with an assortment of items like stray thoughts buzzing around in his head. It's a wonderful place to be in, because all places with him in it are wonderful to be in, but the best of all will always be something like this; a place that so reflects him, a place so defined by him. Like taking a step, just a small step, inside his beautiful, cold, dark heart, getting a little peek at his bared soul!

—But that's his room, and then there's his office. No smaller, but as spacious as his rooms are cluttered, as spotlessly clean and perfectly organized as his room is not. Wide open windows letting sunlight filter in through every direction, cabinets with glass doors, bookshelves with neatly organized files and books and data. Shining-clean white walls and wooden brown furniture that he blends in with, with his white robes and pale hair and complexion, elegant, elaborate robes that make him look like he belongs here rather than in dark underground laboratories. You, of course, know better.

It practically blinds you when you open the door to walk inside. It really is just a little too clean here. The bright light, you personally can enjoy, but it's just a little too perfectly squeaky-shiny-spotless, and you feel the same way about _that_ as you feel about the same traits in people. You really need to dirty this place up a little, one of these days; ideally, with some of your own fluids, and something properly permanent. Though, if anything, that starting point makes it all the better; you like the thought of leaving a stain like that, something of yourself, in one of the few rooms Cilius has that are still clean. It's like being the one to permanently taint the only part of him that's still pure, if he has such a thing.

A single ornate wooden desk sits at the end, and so there does he, pen in his hand, writing down on a scroll, surrounded by pieces of parchment that make the desk the messiest thing in the room. He is scribbling something, judging by the movement of his hands, quite crookedly, with a nice expression of discontent as if he would rather be anywhere but where he is, doing anything but what he's doing. 

At the _sight_ of him, something indecipherable rises in you like it always does, deep and overpowering. Yes, you know what this is; affection! It surges in your heart, bright as a star; it fills your limbs with warmth; it leaves you dizzy in such ways you'd never known it was possible for you to feel. It demands all your focus, calls to forget everything about purpose, and work, and duty, evolution and progress, the sky; abandon all that, it tells you, and fills yours thoughts with Cilius, Cilius, Cilius! Every hour, every minute, every second of each day!

 _Love!_ That's what it's like. Incredible, inexplicable, indescribable. Love, more magical than real magic, more miraculous than the work of the Astrals, then the creations of the divine; love, the only thing that can even come close to dulling your ever-sharp mind. And he, your Cilius, your only one, beautiful, bright, and cold, pale and shining like an icy glass moon; his soft round face hardened and sharpened, brilliant, like diamonds, and with its expressions, like stone, crueler and harsher in his apathy than you could ever hope to be in your sadism, than any being in the world at the height of its malice could dream of being! Beautiful, breathtaking, in all that he is!

He doesn't acknowledge you when you enter, and you stride over him across the vast space that, in this office, feels like walking across an wide, empty clearing in a forest. It also feels rather as if you're making a long and arduous journey to be able to meet your love, and you rather like that; it's very poetic, and romantic, and you've always had a taste for that sort of thing.

"You should really see the _look_ on your face, Cilius," you say, conversationally, as you walk up close enough for him to hear. "Now, what's got you looking all surly and cross like that? More so than usual, I mean. Don't get me wrong, though, it's a _great_ look on you."

Not looking up, he gives you a single, curt answer: "Reports."

You stand facing him, and peer down to the desk. "Reports?" You blink down at the desk, at the jagged, crooked figures scribbled down at the scroll where his pen is continuing to move and create more. "To the Council? Now where's Bubs' gone off to, that you have to write these?"

"Nowhere. They're demanding a full progress update, and they want it from me." He makes a disgruntled noise at that. "He said if I comply and give them enough to keep them sated, it'll be easier keep them off our backs afterwards."

"You're going to give them _this_?" Not bothering to warn him, you grab the scroll of parchment right from under his hand and turn it over so you can read it, looking it over with an expression of surprise and interest.

Cilius can't ignore that. He finally looks up an narrows his eyes at you. "And what do _you_ think you're doing?"

"Just curious how you're going to submit something like _this_ as a report to the Council. Wow, I wish I could be there and see it for myself. Can you imagine the _looks_ on the faces of all these scheming old politicians when—"

"Do you have a problem, Belial?" His voice goes from annoyed to perfectly level, and in any other situation, and to anyone else, that would be quite the bad sign. There's a note of warning there; that you're stepping out of bounds, that you need to know your place. Which is a silly thing to warn you about, actually, and even sillier for _him_ to do it.

"Me? Have a problem with this? I would _never_ , Cilius, I _love_ it, but I doubt the Council shares my tastes." Or, for that matter, your pure, untarnished, eternal love for all things to do with him! "Oh, this is rich. Finally, they finally get the communication they want from you, and whoops! They can't read any of it cause it's barely legible. I never took you for a neglect play kind of man, but you know what, it suits you. You're going to leave them so _terribly_ blue-balled, Cilius, and they won't be able to complain when you went out of your way to write this much, too!"

The Council may not appreciate it, but to you, his awful, messy handwriting is just one more of the many hundreds to thousands of things about him that are so charming and lovable. You _love_ that your intelligent, refined, all-powerful Cilius writes like an angel drone with underdeveloped motor functions, love that this is how he writes his oh so important formulas and inscribes all his data in, and just somehow manages with it; you love everything about the handwriting itself, love the impatient roughness, the half-baked crookedness, all its wonderful inelegance!

You look at him, beaming with your most dazzling smile (it's  _very_ dazzling), and he stares at you back, with some mild disbelief. "You were talking about my handwriting." He says, seeming to deflate. "You can read it, can't you? So long as it's legible, they have nothing to complain about."

"Now just because I can read it doesn't mean anyone else can. I'm _special_ , you know?"

"And this, Belial, is one of _many_ reasons that you're not there. If they heard you, an artificial creation, claiming his intellect is superior to Astrals—" The corner of his mouth twitches, and your heart jumps at the sliver of a smile that passes over his face. "Well, it _would_ be amusing, but the scandal of it would spell a great deal of trouble for me."

You laugh at this; of course, _that's_ what he thinks you meant. So absolutely like him, still not seeing what you've been telling and made clear to him hundreds of times in many different words. "Oh, Cilius. You know that's not what I mean. Or what I meant when I said the Council don't share my taste."

He _looks_ at you again, then shakes his head. "This again. No, I _don't_ know that. You want someone to go solving puzzles and riddles for you, find one of the other angels. Maybe they have the time to spare for your games. Now give me that." He grabs for the scroll, and you let him take it back and settle it on the table.

You peer over the desk contents again. "It looks like you've been at it for a while. Sure you don't want to take a break?"

"As happy as I would be doing literally _anything_ but this, I'll be even happier when it's done with." He gestures to the other pieces of parchment spread haphazardly all over the desk. "Why don't you make yourself actually useful and look over these?"

"Oh, there's more?" You pick up one of them as you read over the incredibly dry list of names and resources— not in his writing, these, probably had someone else compiling those— and whistle. "Wow, no kidding about the _full_ part. Our friends up there sure are getting needy and demanding. Are _all_ these just attachments?"

"Yes. Make sure they're accurate. Should be easy enough for you, no?"

Indeed. You gather up the mess into a neat little stack for convenience and, not bothering to find somewhere to sit, begin to sift through. "Sure, but you know I'd _much_ rather be looking at yours." You'd be too distracted cooing over the handwriting, of course, to focus, or over all the charming ways you can see his own distinct way of phrasing things slipping through the forced formalities, but you'd get it done.

" _Do_ I know that? I doubt you'd find more interest in reading it than I do in writing it." Ah, your innuendo was blatantly ignored! How sad. Maybe it was just too subtle. "Now be quiet. I need to focus."

Silence fills the room after that, broken only by the sound of Cilius' pen and the parchment shifting in your hands. It's a lot of lists, and a lot of reports, and all of them written with such perfect mechanical precision, you're sure one of the lesser angels has taken care of it— probably one of the drone angels, a scribe. They don't require much more than a quick look over; any miscount or misreport would stand out instantly to your eye, to you who remembers every precise detail clearly enough one could pull out the data from your head and present it to the Council if they so wished. What you do notice that while nothing is _wrong_ , per say, there's quite a bit _missing._ Nothing that the Council really _has_ to know as far as they're concerned, so much as things that would make them quite annoyed indeed to find out have been hidden.

But of course. What the Council doesn't know won't hurt them. Well, it won't now. You _really_ want to see what Cilius exactly is telling them about his work to both keep them all softened and satisfied and not reveal anything that will make them inclined to sniff around. For someone so unsociable, he can be pretty smooth about these things, though not as much as you.

Occasionally, the silence is broken when Cilius needs to cross-reference something, and asks you to read something from the attachments; then, as it moves on, apparently dissatisfied with the silence in spite of his earlier demand, and perhaps unaware of the irony, starts to ask you for updates. You resist the urge to ask him if he's going to demand a handwritten progress report too. It's all very businesslike and formal and very impersonal, but you can hardly mind so long as you get to hear more of his voice, get to bask in his presence, in the joy of conversation with him.

But your perseverance is rewarded! For, once you've done catching him up, and finish looking over the attachments and set them back on his desk in a nice neat little folded pile, he doesn't stop talking— even as you clearly see how it slows his progress, how his pen keeps slowing or stopping as he thinks on his answers to your questions. The conversation between the two of you turns to more general matters; his progress and yours, work plans, new experiments and new archangels, the four Primarchs and their own progress, and Lucifer, and—

"—And then there's Lucifer's pet. I still need to settle on what is to be done with him."

Lucifer's pet? Ah. You've met him, only a few, fleeting times, when you were visiting Lucifer's gardens. Only one or two of these times did you really interact, but it's given you a decent enough sense of the kind of boy he is, and you're clever enough to be certain of your conclusions.

"Oh, Sandy? He's a sweet little thing, isn't he? A little kitten." Each time you see the little thing, with how light he looks, you get the urge to pick him up by his armpits, like holding a real cat by its sides, to see if he squirms like one. Or to make him cry, just to see what he'd look like. There's an unblemished, bright-eyed, soft innocence to him that you want to thoroughly crush; you want to see what he's like when he breaks, to see that wide-eyed purity ruined, tainted, corrupted. He's just a little sapling, now, and you wonder what he'd look like, fully matured. If he becomes one of you. Oh, _there_ 's a thought. Converting Lucifer's own pet, taking his most precious, purest little treasure right from under him— he won't react, not on the surface, he'll stay controlled, but nothing escapes your eye; you'd be able to see even through the thinnest, barest cracks, what goes on beneath.

You wonder if he'd be upset. You wonder what it would be like to seduce Sandy right under his very eyes; whisper sweet nothings into the boy's ear as he blushes adorably, happy yet embarrassed at the attention and praise, see those so very virginal reactions to experiencing arousal for the first time, watch him squirm under your touch, work him over until he's putty in your hands with desire and need— and then, you'd bend him over the nearest hard surface and pound into him thoroughly, rough yet gentle, draw out the sweetest noises and make Lucifer watch and listen to every second of it— make sure he sees as you take his precious precious Sandy from him, wonder if he'd be jealous, if he'd be angry, if he'd be sad. If he would feel anything at all—

Cilius makes a derisive noise. "Rather more of a dog."

A lovely fantasy interrupted by a equally lovely reality; between the mental image you just conjured, and the sound of Cilius' voice, in its distant, disdainful tone, you really can't pick the better!

"Nope, a kitten." Cheerfully, but firmly, you insist, which seems to make Cilius vaguely annoyed. It seems as if it looks to him that you're just arguing about semantics, but there's a reason: "Kittens are small and adorable, but fierce and intense. And once they grow into their claws, oh, they can be _scary_."

"You're sure it's the brat you're talking about?"

"Why, Cilius, you can't tell me you haven't seen it? Sandy's not like Lucifer, squeaky clean and spotless right up to the asshole." You lean in closer to him, put an hand on side of his chair. "He could be of great use to _us_ , too. All I have to do is press the right buttons, draw it out of him... it's so simple. It would be so _easy._ He's got that violence in him too, festering, waiting to be unleashed. I'm sure it will look beautiful when lets it all release."

His tone flat, Cilius says, breaks between every sentence: "Is that how it looks to you?" Then, after a long pause: "It _would_ take an archangel of cunning to find a use for him." And then, again, flat, clipped, cold, not with apathy, but— "But if the resources spent on making him won't go _entirely_ to waste, and if it means Lucifer has one less distraction, then by all means. Go do as you like."

Well, now. This is unusual. You've noticed a stir of it the first time he brought up the subject, but it's really starting to stand out now. Wherever is this venom coming from? "Hmm? You don't like Sandy, Cilius?" Strange, given that Lucifer made him on Cilius' own orders, and then Cilius himself said Lucifer could keep him if he wanted. More than that, rarely does he care for things strongly enough to dislike them; there's so little he really prioritizes and values outside of himself, his work, or Lucifer, and _he_ —

Ah. _Ah_. Could it _be_? "I thought _you_ would like him, certainly with how much Lucifer does."

And oh, _that_ gets a reaction. A true, proper _reaction_ — a sight as precious as any rarest jewel! The littlest twitch in his nostrils, the way the side of his mouth flares just briefly before settling; you see the shadow of a snarl, fleeting, on his face, as if it started to take on the expression on its own accord before deciding better of it. Well, well, well _, well!_

"What's this?" You let absolute glee slip into your voice, not bothering the minuscule effort to keep it in check: "Cilius, Cilius. Cilius. Are you _jealous_?"

The reaction _then_ is even better; you see his shining white gritted teeth bared as he snarls, "Of who? _That_ runt?"

Oh, this— this is wonderful! Delightful, glorious! Your creator, powerful Astral, cold, calculating scientist and researcher, brilliant and sharp— _jealous!_ That's him, your Cilius; his pettiness, his vindictiveness, his childishness! Always, always lovely. At the sight of it your heart swells with such warmth, such depths of affection, not for the first time, yet never any less overwhelming. A sensation that takes you off your guard for the briefest of moments, each time.

In your delight, you burst into laughter: "You _are_ jealous!" And even you did not expect to hear that warmth and affection in your voice; it seeps in of its own accord, and you take a moment to savor that rare, dizzying sensation of your voice slipping for the briefest moment out of your control.

"Lucifer _does_ like Sandy very, very much, doesn't he? Oh, but I don't think you have to worry about him neglecting, or forgetting you, or spending too much time with him at the expense of his duty." (In fact, you almost wish he would, really! Just so he'd do something vaguely interesting for once! These affections towards the kitten are the closest thing Mister Perfect has ever had to a defect.) "I mean, he's a good boy, isn't he, your Lucifer? Knows how to allocate his attention and time to everyone as much as they need to. And he'd never even _think_ neglect his duty for any personal desires."

If he even _has_ any! In that sense, little Sandy, too, seems to be the closest thing there is. Maybe if you pull on _that_ particular thread you'd be able to find something of interest in him; it's a thought that occurred to you and you mulled over several times, but never did bring you to any particular conclusion. 

Of course, not that any of it matters either way. To your self-absorbed, narcissistic Cilius, that Lucifer pays any decent amount of attention to anyone but him is easily the same as neglect, and that's _unacceptable_ , and _outrageous,_ and _impossible!_

And he, of course, does not look calmed by this; you see both his hands twitching, fingers making a motion as if to curl into fists, the one holding his pan gripping it tighter and tighter until you think he might break it. His face twists, beautifully, alluringly, with barely suppressed anger, just seconds away from bursting out, like the rippling surface of clear water.

"So you say." He hisses sharply through his teeth, quite cutely, then sucks in an even sharper breath through the nose. "Yes, of course he is. I made him. I made him as exquisite and as faultless as he is. The thought of it wouldn't even _occur_ to him. He just needs the brat as a _pet_. Something to keep him entertained every so often. When he has time off. Fair enough. Even the Supreme Primarch is allowed a minor frivolity."

Oh, _look_ at him! Trying to calm himself, to convince himself. How adorably valiant.

"And speaking of frivolities," he says, suddenly. "You, Belial."

You blink at him, wide-eyed and innocent. "Me?"

"Yes, _you_. Is there anyone else who is more of a walking, talking mass of frivolity than you are? You should be well aware that you are constantly tethering on the edge of being completely useless, and I, more often than not, find myself wondering why I shouldn't just discard you."

You could laugh yourself to near-death. Oh, like he'd even _try_! When you both know well how instrumental you've been to everything both of you have accomplished until now. Cilius can be undecipherable in way other people aren't, but here, in this moment, he's downright transparent. But you don't mind! This is what foreplay is always like with him, and that sort of foreplay is your favorite kind. It's one of countless of reasons you love him; that he never makes anything easy. Nothing worth getting is easy, you've learned, and that makes him the most precious treasure of all.

"I'd take that as a compliment. But really, I have _no_ idea what you mean. Frivolous? Me? I'll have you know there's not a single more serious person across all the skies! No, really, though. Haven't I been useful to you? Haven't I served and followed your every command?"

"Just barely enough that I haven't discarded you _yet_. You're walking a very thin line with your antics."

"Well, isn't that just enough? What else do you need? I do everything you want, and I do it gladly. Oh, yes— everything, _everything_ I ever do— all of it is only ever for you, you know? You know what the most important thing in all the world to me is, Cilius?"

"Getting off?"

You sigh dramatically. "Oh, Cilius, my dear, you're so brilliant, so capable, and _so_ obtuse. Didn't I tell you this? Don't I tell you this every day? It's love, of course. Love!" Cilius fixes you with a flat stare. "Everything I do, Cilius, I do because I love _you_."

You get no reply from him for a moment. He keeps on with that same flat stare for what seems like at least several minutes. Then he presses his hand to his face and scrunches his eyes shut, rubbing his temples like he has a headache.

"'Every day', he says. 'Every day'." Cilius murmurs, adorably exasperated and tired. "The only thing I consistently hear when you talk is 'I'm horny', and that even though I've been letting you into my bed for years now." He puts his hand down and looks at you like he's trying to glare but is too tired to make the barest effort towards it. "I heard you say this exactly once, but I had, naturally, assumed it was you being your usual self. And you're saying you were serious."

"What, of course I was. The _usual me_ is always, one-hundred-percent, nothing less than absolutely serious at all times. I mean it! Love, you know— love is everything!" You make a grand gesture with your hands as you quote: "'For love is as strong as death, its jealousy as unrelenting as the Underworld'— not that I would know, because I've never felt a single negative emotion in my life, jealousy included!— 'It burns like blazing fire, like a mighty flame! Many waters cannot quench love; rivers cannot sweep it away—'"

"'If a man were to give all the wealth of his house for love, he would be scorned.'" Cilius closes the quote for you. Finding out your Cilius, all cold logic and science, can also recognize poetry and knows it well enough to quote by heart, is quite the treat. Of course, naturally, for all his talk he has this artistic side to him too; one can see it in all his creations, but getting a glimpse of it like this, that's something else.

"Oh, no, Cilius. That one is a question, not a statement. 'Would he be scorned?' You know how things get lost in translation, and it's a very complex poem. See, what it's saying is that you can't possibly blame someone for giving _all_ they have for the sake of love—"

"A poor choice of poetry to quote, Belial, if you are attempting to seduce me with it." He interrupts you sharply and gives another sigh. "Well," He says, finally, and takes his pen again, setting his eyes again to his poor, sad, neglected, long-forgotten report. "If that's how you choose to rationalize it to yourself, then fine. Whatever you choose to believe is none of my business."

"What, you think I'm just deluding myself? Oh, that hurts." Well, no, it doesn't. It's not even surprising. Your Cilius has never been an expert in the elusive matters of the heart, where even biology and science has its limits, and logic struggles to survive. "That was me speaking from the bottom of my heart, you know?"

"What heart? You are a primal beast. _Love_ is a matter you can leave to the skydwellers. You're saying you consider it your purpose and meaning in life to serve me, but that too is what you were build to be. You would be a failure otherwise."

His pen hovers over the scroll again, and stops. He blinks once, and his eyes flicker, briefly, to you. "And in that case, what are you really, Belial? Perhaps it is _you_ who is a mere dog."

Oh, and _what_ a moment this is. To be on the end of such words in the most clinical tone, spoken like a distant observation, to feel the cold apathy that radiates from him like a icy fog. It all nearly robs you of your eloquence; why, you might come untouched just from this alone! A shudder of desire and delight in equal measure rise in you, and you let it pass through you, not bothering to keep any in check, but habit means you keep your voice level and controlled when you speak.

"Mmm..." Letting out only a sliver of your reaction in your hum, just enough to make sure he picks up on it but nothing more, you keep your voice light, cheery, mock-offended: "I don't mind being a dog, but I wish you'd say 'puppy', instead. You don't think I'm cute enough?" You send him your best innocent, charmingly naive smile— it's a very good one, you know. Anyone but him would be convinced by it, too!

Cilius makes a noise vaguely like a snort, not looking at you as he resumes writing. "That would make you even _less_ of use. A dog can be trained to hunt. What use do you expect me to find in a harmless, toothless pup?"

And that's the question you've been waiting for. A smile slowly creeping up your face, you walk up to his side and lean in until the tip of your nose brushes against his hair. It's only the slightest touch, but the combination of its silky softness with the _smell_ is downright sinful.

" _Anything_ you want, love," you purr into his ear. "I'll do whatever you want. I'm _very_ well-trained, you know; I'll sit and stay and heel and fetch and roll over and _come—_ " You pull back away slightly to wink at him, you know, _ju—st_ in case he doesn't get it, at which he rolls his eyes. " _—_ on your command, and whine and bark for you all you like. I'm _obedient,_ too; I always listen to my master, and only ever act on my master's commands. And, even better, since I'm such a clever pup, I can learn new ones, too. I'll do anything you need a puppy to do and more. I'll be the best puppy a puppy can be!"

"Will you shit on the carpet too?" Is the answer you get, dry, disaffected, and you laugh. "That was not a joke."

You understand well enough what he's saying; asking if you intend to be more trouble than you're worth. Which— _really_! As if he doesn't know the answer. As if he who made you as you are doesn't well know everything there is to know about you. Or at least almost everything. Or, at the very least, he _should_.

"If there _is_ a joke here, it's that choice of description of yours. If you had only ever done what I had told you to do, life would be _much_ easier for me. As it stands, you run off on your own and act on your whims annoyingly often." He says, not sounding annoyed in the least. Just as it seems like he's said all there is for him to say, his hand stops in its writing for the briefest moment again, before resuming again. You catch a thoughtful movement behind his eyes, and a low, contemplative hum, as if some idea, some new thought occurred to him. "That said, if the thought of being my lapdog is so enticing to you, I _might_ just consider it."

Oh, you really, _really_ like where this is going, and perk up: you can only hope it's what you think it means. (If not, you're going to have to find some other way to take care of this hard-on, which wouldn't be the first time but no less of a letdown.)

"Oh, Cilius, you've just _made_ my day."

"I said I might. _If_ you can prove yourself." Still not looking at you, he taps his foot to the side. "Start with the basics. Dogs belong in only one place."

And at this— if not love, what it is that makes your heart skip a beat like it does? If not love, what is it that makes something deep in the pool of your stomach flutter, make you lightheaded with joy, revitalizes you, as if you were being reborn, as if life itself, in its purest, distilled form, was being poured into your veins? If not love, what is that makes your— haha, well, alright, maybe the way _that_ particular part reacts is not because of love. Okay, but seriously, though! Even arousal feels different when Cilius is the cause, in a way you can't quite explain. You like to think that it's because, instead of just your libido, it's your heart that's getting stimulated at the same time, too!

With a purr of "Yes, _sir_ ," you swiftly get to your knees. It's a nice feeling, having to look up at him, to really feel your own submission— your cock twitches in your trousers again, more than a little pleased. Leaning your head towards his lap, you add, chipper, "At their Master's side, of course. See? Aren't I _clever_ —"

A gloved hand tugs painfully at your hair, almost lazily, but it's just enough for a pleasant, burning sting on your scalp, and pulls your head back in such a sudden motion you don't stop a surprised moan from coming out of your throat. Cilius's head is only half turned, eyes just barely looking towards you.

"Not in particular, no, given how quickly you forget that dogs cannot speak." There is no anger, no disdain, not even mild irritation; his voice is perfectly level, as if to inject any emotional inflection is far too much effort. "We'll need to establish some rules, to start with. And don't _pout_ , for heaven's sake. It's a hideous look on you."

Well _that_ 's a little harsh, but you pull back the (in your own, humble modest opinion, quite charming) puppy-eyed expression you were making. It's worth it when he turns his head and looks you in the eye properly.

"Now, what's the problem?" He asks, like a condescending parent of a complaining child. "Do you have trouble with rules, Belial?"

Of course not, you want to tell him, you _love_ rules. You love breaking them because you love them— oh, that's a good one. Not at all true, but still good. It's not really a matter of love or hate, and you definitely don't have trouble following them if you must. Rules exist only to be broken, they're practically just standing there _begging_ for it, begging to be broken— oh, that's a good one, too!— by nature of their existence. As skydwellers only define good so they can tell what is bad; as moral standards only exist, not so they know who to praise and reward, but who to discard and shun; so are rules there to establish, not what is allowed, but what is forbidden— and through that, of course, what is most desirable.

And how ironic that you can't give him an answer now _because_ of rules, but Cilius clearly doesn't expect one: "Yes, you do. But you can endure it. Consider it part of your trial." The grip on your scalp releases, to your mild disappointment. "We've established the first rule just now. The second should, I think, be obvious enough: you are not to move or act without my permission. That includes coming; I believe you said you can do that on command? You've flaunted quite a bit earlier, Belial. I hope you are prepared to live up to your words."

It's odd, and interesting, being the silent one while he speaks. You don't think you've ever heard him say quite so many words at once without you there to stir him on further, or without you talking at least twice as much.

"Speaking of commands. I think _stay_ would be a good place to start, no?"

Saying that, he turns his full attention back to the parchment on his desk, and goes back to writing at a pace you haven't witnessed from the first few moments you entered his office, going about his work as if you're not even there.

Oh, what a _tease!_ It's so like him, and it warms you up inside to think he's taken your remark about neglect play to heart; and that he remembered that this kind of foreplay is what you love best. It's _entirely_ possible, of course, that the only thing going on is he's realized how distracting you are, and that—without even necessarily initially trying, though you didn't exactly encourage him otherwise— you ended up sort of being the reason he hasn't made any progress in the past hour. Which is to say: that this all is just an excuse to get you to shut up. If so, it would be a terribly roundabout way to go about it when he can just _tell_ you to leave, but you'd rather take it as an affectionate gesture that he prefers to keep you here. It's also delightfully petty, stringing you along like that, and you'd expect nothing less!

You're glad to play along either way, so you keep your current position like a good boy and wait.

The office is dead silent again, only the scratch of the pen, louder against the silence like a light in the darkness. You don't even pass the briefest glance at the clock as time passes, not even as you wonder how long he really intends to keep this up. Not when you can look at him for hours in this perfect silence, study him until you memorized every millimeter of him, until you could reproduce his image perfectly in ink if you so needed, until it's burned into your retina and the back of your skull.

And sure, being on your knees gets considerably less exciting once it's been so long discomfort begins to settle from holding the same position for too long. Meanwhile, your cock, clearly annoyed about being ignored, retreads back into a half-soft, somewhat deflated state, like a scorned lover, passive aggressively refusing to talk after a petty fight. But all of these things are irrelevant, mere buzzing somewhere at the back of your mind, when the sight of him is here right in front of you. You could stay here frozen until the end of time and bask in the presence of him; you could abandon all your desires and spend eternity here, only you and him with no one else to interrupt you.

You watch him, eyes lingering on his hair— remember its silky smooth texture each time you feel it in your hands, slide your gaze down his lips and think of each of hundreds of times they had pressed against your own, how his mouth had pried yours open, ruthless and uncaring, how he always slides his tongue inside your mouth, harsh and blunt and direct, as if it were one of his many cold metal tools. Your eyes slip from his face down to his gloved hands, to the long, bony fingers hard at work, that you've felt just earlier— and not for the first time— tugging harshly at the roots of your hair.

They're pale beneath, and thinner than they look without the gloves, and you think about taking each one them in your mouth and sucking on them, lavishing them with your tongue, one by one. About kissing each knuckle, then the top of his hand, in reverence, in worship, then the slender wrists beneath each gold bracelet, and then, guiding them between your legs as you spread them wide to invite those fingers inside you—

—Aha, _there_ we go! The rising intense need to touch him calls back your petty lover, who sticks their head back from an open door, curious, wanting to be called back, regretting their departure but stubbornly reluctant to admit it. Which is to say you're properly hard again (but you rather like the cute metaphor you came up with), and it's only making your discomfort worse but also just enhances your arousal in an endless circle.

This is likely what he was counting on, but he should know best; though the body has needs and yours are particularly demanding, there is little in the world you've found you cannot endure. He could put you through the sort of training and endurance tests that are creatively grueling beyond even what you can conceive, he could push your control to its absolute limit, and it wouldn't break you even if you wanted it to.

(And you would love to be broken by him; if anyone could, it would have to be the man who put you together. You want to see if he could dissect you with the same clinical thoroughness as he does everything he puts on the lab table, to know what it is to come apart at the seams under his hands; to be burned to the core in his all-consuming blue flame.)

With the way his eyes hasn't shifted even slightly in your direction, though, and how his body language hasn't changed even the slightest, not even half a reaction, he clearly hasn't noticed, or he'd assumed that— you being you— you've already long been worked up. No, he keeps on writing— so diligent! Working so hard on boring reports with an irresistible, sensual, distracting, amorous archangel at his feet, ready and willing to follow his every whim.

You take this as an invitation, then, to imagine more. This isn't the first or last time the two of you have tried out this sort of game, but you've never done anything quite like _this_ before, although you wish he would go further, with the full program! For him to, one of these days, fuck you to the point of near-orgasm, and then, out of the blue, apropos of nothing, pull out and leave the room. Keep you there waiting, uncertain, all bound and blindfolded and gagged and painfully aroused in a dark room, for several days at _least_ so that you _really_ feel it. You suggested it once, and he seemed to think it too much of a hassle, but it's so fitting for him to do that you're surprised he didn't think of it before.

"You are _remarkably_ more tolerable once you've been silenced." His voice, in an act that in itself absolutely out of the blue and absolutely apropos of nothing, casually breaks you out of your fantasies. "I should have you properly muzzled when we're alone."

It's not what he meant, but you imagine a real dog's muzzle— a purely symbolic one, obviously, but a reminder of your place, a sweetly, deliciously humiliating restraint on you— having to put it on alongside a collar every time you enter his rooms, tortuously denied access to your favorite mouth to kiss. A proper muzzle to _really_ keep you silent would be just as well— no need to make the effort and force yourself to stay quiet. You rub your head against his leg, more cat-like, admittedly, than dog-like, to show your approval, and he snorts. "Of course you would like that. "

You're _really_ hard now and it's making you all pent up, and the little bit of acknowledgement only makes it more straining to keep in when he goes back to ignoring you. Straining, but not impossible. Is that what he expects? Is he testing your limits, when he surely, definitely knows you have none? What would he do if you disobeyed? Cilius is not easily provoked— not even by you, who had mastered it to an art form— but you could either wait for him to finish up those boring reports, be the perfect, good, obedient boy, at which he'll probably reward you and give you exactly what you want, or you could try to get a punishment out of him and make it more of a challenge, a struggle.

Well, thinking of it like _that_ makes it an obvious choice.

It's hard to scoot over while on your knees, but you manage to get close enough to lean your whole body against his leg. You considered flat out humping his leg to _really_ try to provoke him, but you figure moving from your spot like this is enough to stray from his very specific command, and sure enough, his pen stops, and he turns his head. Where he's staring down at you, his expression is unreadable, no anger nor a sliver of malice in it, but the angle gives him a strangely menacing, contemptuous air that makes arousal surge in you again, almost painfully.

"Oh, did you take that to meant you were allowed to move now?" He clicks his tongue. "Or is such a simple command so difficult for you? We've only just gotten started, Belial. You're certain want to start disobeying already?"

Not quite enough, hm? Your kept your hands at your sides until now, but you grab at his folded knee as an anchor, and start to sit up on your knees, trying to move closer and opening your mouth to lick at him, when you feel the deliciously harsh sting of a swift strike on your face, then another one, slapping your hands away. You nearly fall back on your ass, but his hand is on the back of your head again, now— it grabs you by the hair and holds your head in place. You want to moan, but it would be better to play along with _this_ part, and you close your eyes, open your mouth and make your best approximation of the most dog-like whine you can manage. You think you do a pretty good job, all things considered! Primal beasts are not designed to imitate animal noises, and angels, specifically, much less so, but you could always do all sorts of amazing things with your throat, and it's a properly pathetic-sounding noise, too.

You don't see his expression, but Cilius' voice is as clinical and apathetic as always when he says. "I would have commended you on your obedience, too. Such a shame you had to ruin it for yourself." He pulls your head down forcefully, and oh, the pain in your scalp _really_ flares now, and it's _delicious_. "Seems you can't do something as simple as waiting without interrupting my work." He says, like he even _wants_ to be doing any of it, like he's not suffering through the whole deal, and you open your eyes to send him a small, amused smile, only to receive another slap in return (with his left hand, but no less painful— good with both hands, your Cilius!) and you let out another loud, shameless noise, somewhere right between your best dog-like whine and a more natural moan. His eyes travel down your body, between your legs. He narrows his eyes, and—

—Then, just as soon as it grabbed you, the same hand lets go. He points at the nearest couch behind you. "You are going to sit there and wait until I am done. Then we shall see what will be done about you."

And then— and then! You see it— in the cold and dark depths of his eyes, a flicker of light, a small flame that burns even brighter and hotter against the frozen darkness. Again, the corner of his mouth twitching, like he's fighting off a smile, halfheartedly, a battle he's letting himself lose— a smile of a different kind this time, not dry amusement, but something satisfied, almost smug. He's _enjoying_ this, enjoying this small yet palatable power trip. And that—

—Leaves you feeling pretty smug on your end, too. Absolute submission is always fun; you would get on your knees for him every time he asked, and gladly. But even though that's the role you're playing here, really, you've already got the upper hand in one sense; that's he's enjoying this is already a victory. You can be certain that the dry Council report is the furthest thing on his mind right now. 

Well! Either way, you're more than happy to comply. The roots of your hair still sting delightfully and the slightest, teasing taste of his punishment is enough to keep you sated for years, let alone for a few minutes. It occurs to you when you get there that you're not sure if he meant _by_ the couch or _on_ the couch, but decide that staying on the floor is the far sexier option.

Waiting is simultaneously so much easier and so much more maddening now; more maddening when you're all more eager to get to the point, because the anticipation just keeps building up, but easier because of a new keen awareness that he wouldn't normally be this easily provoked, and that this couldn't have possibly bothered him _that_ much— he's never been harsh towards you before, or at least, not quite in this way, not to this extent, not to purposefully. Only a few times when you were in bed did he halfheartedly smack you around a few times when you asked. Which is to say this isn't him being provoked; it's him choosing to let you provoke him as part of the game.

Naturally this isn't exactly how such things are done. You know well enough that the way this sort if game is played has to come with proper prior negotiation of where exactly are the lines between play and reality, but that would make it all rather boring and predictable, and you love the uncertainty of where exactly does your play end and reality begin.

And then, finally— _finally!_ — the moment comes when he sets his pen down. He sits there, silently for a moment, looking at his desk, then does the cutest thing when he lets out a deepest sigh of relief. He looks like he's about to do the unthinkable and thank every named god for the fact that he's finally done, like he's just been released from the greatest of suffering, like someone who's finally gotten some water after nearly dying of thirst in the desert, someone who's gotten food after starving for months, someone who has finally gone to the bathroom and is sitting on the chamber pot after holding it in for weeks and having a really good— well, that sort of thing. And then, even more adorable, he _stretches_ , raising his poor, overworked hands and scrunching up his face with the most _darling_ little noise!

He sits for a moment, seemingly content to bask in the afterglow, the sweet release— from annoying, tedious tasks, poor man. Or he's playing coy on purpose, like he's ignoring you, like he's forgotten you, _really_ pushing it now to build the anticipation. Anyone else, this would have left them anxious and terrified, stewing in their own thoughts about what might happen and left to imagine all the worst possible things, but all the thoughts you have left to stew in are only thoughts of him! And the buildup is only making you all the more excited, your heart beating desperately in your chest, your entire being waiting and calling for him to come closer!

Then he turns his head and looks at you as if he'd just remembered that you were there, and stands up, still slow and almost lazy in the way he strides over to you, and your already spiked heart rate seems to increase with every step, but you look up at him with your very-very-best winning, sparkling, dazzling smile. He comes to stand before you, arms crossed, eyeing you up like a malfunctioning piece of equipment, in a way that no one _ever_ looks at you, and at this point you really are starting to think you're going to come without him even touching you.

(You _could_ hold on as long as needed, but then, there's a thought, too— it might be fun to come now on your own to get another, harsher punishment out of him. On the other hand, it will also makes things awkward and less fun if you'll have to wait until you can physically get it up again, and you're not sure how much you can really get out of the punishment in that state.)

"Roll over," he says, out of nowhere. "I want you on your back."

What magic words! Real, actual magic is _nothing_ compared to the effect they have on you. You instantly comply— you can't _quite_ do this the way real dogs do, but you can imitate the motion, and— in your humble opinion, of course— quite smoothly. Hands folded behind his back, he begins to circle you, eyeing you up wordlessly all the while, cool, careful and controlled, a power that simmers from under the surface and beneath his small frame radiating from him. Clinical and predatory at once.

"Tell me something. Is there a reason you go out of your way to make trouble?" He speaks— voice, again, calm and even, not a sliver of anger, not even a hint of irritation. "A reason you go constantly chasing after your own whims, with no regard to your place?" He comes to a stop in front of you, and raises his foot, the tip of his polished black shoe pressing to your chin and raising it appraisingly. "One would think you could follow one extraordinarily _simple_ command." He moves a few steps away and begins circling you again. "I did not design you to be disobedient."

You, of course, know the truth; that in his scholarly precision, in his vain perfectionism, there is not a single cell in your body, a single atom, that he has not put there with purpose, with intent. He does not know to act or work any other way. (It sometimes makes you wonder how much of you is _you_ , and that's a little less fun to think about even if you can't exactly stop, but— well, there is one comfort, one thing you know for certain: that Cilius is not a man seeking to be loved. _That's_ all you, and that's what's most important, even if you sometimes have doubts about the rest.)

 _Love, if I'm disobedient, it can't be for any other reason other than because you made me this way._ You would tell him so, bluntly, were speaking privileges not denied to you at the moment— or, that is to say, if you didn't choose to let them be denied to you— and if the atmosphere around him and the sound of his voice didn't leave you breathless, struggling for words even if you tried to speak, if Cilius weren't so ridiculously, unfathomably alluring right now, even more than usual, even knowing this specific part is almost all play— the line just blurry enough to be uncertain, just uncertain enough to be _delightful._ He comes to stop near your waist, eyeing you up everywhere but your face, and raises an eyebrow.

"Were you hoping I'd take care of this for you?" He raises his foot and comes to rest it on top of the very blatant tent in your trousers, rubs over it with his shoe, briefly, and you allow yourself another high, whiny moan, that crescendos when he presses the heel of his shoe, harshly, roughly, into you, and it feels absolutely _heavenly._ "Ah, I see. This is also what you wanted. Punishment." And just when you think it can't get even better— Cilius tilts his head to the side and presses a finger to his chin thoughtfully.

Then, almost experimentally, as if to test, he sends a swift kick to your side that hits a particularly sensitive spot but not _quite_ enough to satisfy, and then, moving his position to strike from another angle, to your gut— and _oh, yeah,_ that's _good_ , better, but still, still not quite enough. Seemingly content with this, he takes a step back, and _then_ sends swift quick with his shoe right against your jaw. "You really are just a dog, to be getting off on this."

And you're _really_ struggling now, to stay in place with all this arousal and desire and ecstasy flowing through every part of you, threatening to burst from the inside, and when you take a swift series of hits from your still reeling gut to the solas plexus, you stop holding in it; you arch your back in a loud, shameless cry of ecstasy, your whole body twitching, legs spreading shamelessly in invitation as your mind goes blank. Senses practically overloaded, unable to handle such a surge of arousal, you squeeze your eyes shut. When the moment passes and your eyes are open again, you meet Cilius' eye and see him take a step back, staring down at you, something of his cold aura a little abated.

"... You really _do_ like this." He says, blinking. " _That_ much." There's a brief expression of surprise, or something close to it, something mild, that settles into a vague bafflement. What the— oh, come _on!_ Normally you'd be charmed because it actually _is_ incredibly cute of him to be so perplexed after being the one who got you to this point, but you're in the middle of a _great_ scene and this is _not_ the time. You pout at him and hope it signals _can you please not break character now_ clearly enough. It seems to work insomuch as he sighs and murmurs to himself what sounds like "... will _never_ understand..." and even more charmingly shakes his head as if to clear it, to get himself back in the mood.

He moves as if to sit on the couch, then, seeming to change his mind, taps his foot in front of him: "Sit." Waiting until you've settled yourself back on your knees in front of him, his hands reach for the front clasp on his robes. "If you have no use to me as a primal beast—" He undoes the front clasp just enough for the robes to open ever so slightly, then pulls at the inner layer beneath and raises them slowly to the waist, not yet above, not quite yet exposing himself, seemingly only for the emphasis. Only Cilius can make such a gesture look so mechanical and unsexual and not exhibitionistic— although hardly less attractive for it. "—Then there is only one area left where you can prove your worth, isn't there?"

Then he finally sits down, spreads his legs, robes opened up raised with the front of his pants open just enough for you to see him— your mouth waters at the sight of his cock, long and lean and as pretty as the rest of him. And so very and blatantly _hard_. There's little tips of precome dripping just slightly from the tip. _Oh,_ Cilius— _how adorable, pretending to be unaffected when you're already_ this _hard—_ for how long? What it is that did it for him? You choose to think your noises got to him at least a little, that he got at least _something_ out of your own pleasure of having him harshly smack you around.

But in the end it's probably the power trip again. Cilius has never been a sadist, but while he may pretend to be better than the Council (and while you definitely like him more) you know better than to buy the idea that he's immune to the appeal of power. Oh, he likes power just fine, it's just not of the political kind; he's a scientist, a researcher, not a politician. A man who denies institutions, instead of using them for himself, a man who seeks power within nature, rather than people and systems. Some people have ideas about which is morally superior, but really, that's just hypocrisy, pretending either have any right to the moral high ground. Were he a slimy, two-faced, smooth-talking politician full of fake smiles rather than this blunt, dour, antisocial recluse, you'd love him all the same, so long as it's him.

Getting on all fours— always a good position to be in, but damn if it isn't _enhanced_ in this context— you lean in eagerly before you're stopped a hand fisting tightly in your hair again in warning. You stop right where you are, and look up to meet his cold gaze and a voice to match: "Beg me for it."

Ah, _begging!_ That's the absolute _best!_ Not quite the same nonverbally, though. The humiliation angle of struggling to communicate it without words is fun when it's someone else underneath you, and you can enjoy it for yourself, too, but it really peaks when there's a physical gag involved; the struggle, the restraint, is so much more palatable and keenly felt that way. It's closer to being impractical here, when you need to pause and figure it out for yourself for a moment.

You settle for playing along with the theme of the game: open your mouth and stick out your tongue, bouncing a little, panting, shamelessly, urging him, calling him; _I need it. I need you, love, so badly I might die if you don't give me your cock!_ Or at least that's what you hope to communicate. "Good enough." His hand releases your hair, and without further ado, you shift closer with your knees and all but lunge to take his cock into your mouth, making a muffled moan when the taste and smell of him fill your senses.

Now, you're not exactly an unbiased source on this, but you personally think you have enough evidence that you can say, quite truthfully, quite humbly, quite honestly, that you're _very_ good with oral. Passion can't make up for skill, but there is no use for one without the other, and if you had a particular favorite thing to do, sexually— it's _so_ hard to pick, really, but this would easily be among them! Giving head, or eating out, it's all good: you love it all, the hardness of a thick shaft in your mouth and pressing against your tongue, straining your throat, love the smell and taste of some pretty thing's throbbing wet cunt and all the little places and spots to kiss and suck on, love the taste of come, filling your throat or smearing your lips. And maybe it just suits your nature. It's a one sided act in the best sense, after all: a selfless act of caring, of loving, of pure _giving,_ and you're nothing if not a giver, after all! That's the sort of lover you are; for those poor souls who can't enjoy their partner's pleasure, and are more invested in their own, you can only offer pity!

It also makes use of your mouth, and while you're as good with your hands as you are with all your body, it's your mouth where your _real_ skills lie; it's natural, and quite fitting, symbolically, that you'd put it to use in bed equally well.

And to Cilius, you've done it so many times it's second nature by now; it's your favorite place to be, here, between his legs, with your cock in his mouth. Could there _be_ anything better in all the world? You don't even have to try, knowing so well exactly what he likes— the shameless, obscene noises you make when you slurp and suck all wet and hungry, the way you slide your tongue and wrap your tongue around him, repeat the gesture from the base to the head, flicking and tightening around every sensitive spot— yours is very long, and you're very deft, and very precise, and an expert at this, really, and you hollow your cheeks to make what you know is an _incredibly_ debauched expression, looking up at him with heavy lidded eyes.

Cilius is quiet— he always is, during sex, but you feel him throbbing, feel his blood plumbing underneath, feel the softest quickening of his breath, but your favorite thing is when you meet his eyes and see the pale, perfect silvery blue reduced to a single ring of color in his dark eyes, pupils dilated into round black pools. Around you, his thighs shiver and tremble just barely enough that only you'd be able to notice, but he remains in place otherwise unmoving, holding your gaze with his pitiless eyes.

You break eye contact briefly to close your eyes and savor the sensation of it all through other senses; the press of him against your tongue, inside your throat, the feel of him twitching and throbbing when you make a low moan that reverberates through your throat and know that he felt it, savoring the taste and intoxicating smell of him, the sound of his breathing in the silence of the office. When you open your eyes again, his are closed too, lips parted, his breathing just slightly louder, just slightly quicker, head raised just slightly— he's close, and so, _so_ beautiful. You need his come staining your face, marking you; you need to see his face when he comes, that you've seen hundreds of times before, equally breathtaking each time.

You can tell when he lets out the smallest noise and pull away, fast, just in time for the swift, smooth slide of your mouth upwards away from him to drive him to the edge, and you have to close an eye on reflex, when his come spurts all over your face— so wonderful and sticky and wet and warm, so satisfying and so right to have all over your face, dirtying you up, marking you, demeaning you — but you catch it. His open mouth and the sound of his low, soft hum— always so quiet when he comes!— his eyes open every so slightly, dark and hazy through his pale lashes, a glazed and willowy expression, the rarest, rarest moment of openness, almost vulnerable, almost raw.

And only for you. Incomplete, imperfect, but only for you— for you, who could make anyone dance in the palm of your hand, who could make anyone open to you so easily. You find your only challenge here, in your own creator. And he, who never opens up to anyone, not even his most beloved of creations, not even the few he cares for and likes— can only let loose, the closest thing he has to letting loose, around you; can let such base, primitive, physical pleasure to be drawn out in him, and submit to it. To you alone. You don't look for your love to be returned, but this is as close as it gets. It's enough to be different in this way, to be his _only_ in this particular sense, even if you're not to him what he is to you.

He inclines his head, looks down to meet your eye—

And _smiles_ a true, real smile, and your heart might simply stop beating and never resume at the sight. No warmth or affection, but no cold disdain, either— content and satisfied, and you feel like you might lose yourself, as if the perfectly tightly woven seams that bind you might come undone within a second— they cry to you, not to force them to hold you together under such strain. All of you becomes light and air at the sight of him, as if you might disintegrate into particles and become one with the sunlight streaming through the windows, as if your body and soul and heart each on their own might float away in the wind. You are less person, less primal, less fallen angel than you are joy, and love, and wonder, and need.

"Would you look at that, Belial." His voice is a deep, hoarse rumble from the throat. "Looks like you're good for something after all."

It's enough to make you forget, for a moment, about what's between your own legs that hasn't been touched all this time, and seemed to have briefly forgotten itself alongside you; it perks up again at the sound as if it's been reawakened to self-awareness.

It all lasts only for a moment, and the brief smile has gone, but his expression has that edge of satisfaction, of a near-serenity to it. You already miss it— not his smile, but the way it made you feel. You're always chasing after even a sliver of that feeling, for something that can make you feel nearly as palatably _alive_. "Mm, you've done well enough, I suppose, for me to allow you some relief." He stands up, without warning— you move backwards to make space for him. Halfheartedly, he extends a black-clad leg towards you, and says, almost pleasantly. "You remember the rules, don't you? Go on."

So cruel, and so sweet, you must be dreaming! To allow you to get off but only as a dog can, while dangling the right to release right in front of you. And you don't even hesitate to jump and straddle his foot, pressing your cock to the front of his leg and start to rub furiously, breathing heavily all the while, so very keenly aware of how pathetic you must look, even more so with his come still covering your face. How debauched, how base, how lowly you must appear! A mindless animal in heat! And for the life of you, you cannot imagine anything better; to be a primitive, mindless creature of raw hunger and desire, to be reduced to something so raw and thoughtless even for a second; it's what you can only dream of!

To your oversensitive body so responsive to any touch, any contact, to the phantom sensation of his eyes upon you, to the smell of him and his presence in the room, it's certainly more than enough. It pushes you further and further to the edge, and yet— and yet— you do not come. You cannot come. You wait for his command, for his voice to speak, the clinking of a tight leash, but it does not come and you just keep rubbing and rubbing and panting and whining and—

And then it's gone. The friction is gone and you are rubbing up against empty air. It happens within a second, before you know it; he steps away from you, looking not at you but through you. It seems as is if an eternity of silence passes where you only stare at each other—you, desperate, still panting, struggling to hold on to what's so close to being the peak of pleasure yet not be overtaken with it. You make a low, desperate, pleading noise you have no name for and think you could almost cry in ecstasy.

You nearly slip entirely out of control and think you really truly might just come after all when he smiles again. It lasts only for a second, but enough to make something sting at the back of your eyes. Then he is cold and clinical again, watching you with no hunger and need, but observing you like his test subjects, like a machine he's performing maintenance on. And then, after this small eternity, you finally hear it: "Come."

Your body responds as if that single word is in itself the sweetest touch. It recognizes his authority, scrambles to follow orders, and throws itself into the peak of climax, desperate with relief, with elation. It twists with pleasure out of your control— back arching, head thrown back with a loud, drawn out cry through which your voice breaks. Your hands grasp tight and desperate at the carpet as an anchor, elbows slamming into the floor, legs twisting and spreading in every which way. You let pleasure wash over your mind and wipe all your thoughts clean and blank, an assault of bliss on all your senses. The urgent pumping beat of your overwhelmd heart seems to go from the tips of your feet to your hands to your head.

So, all in all? It's a _great_ orgasm.

When your mind clears, Cilius is sitting again, looking unruffled by the cum stain on his feet and on the carpet beneath him, the only shift in his expression being a single raised eyebrow.

"I see that shame is still an entirely foreign concept to you."

"Yep, never heard of it!" You announce, proudly, but apparently the game isn't over yet, because Cilius leans down and slaps you again, and really, it's entirely unfair to do this _after_ you've come.

"I don't remember saying you're allowed to speak." He shoves his shoe right to your face. "Now clean up your mess."

And though even your body strains to get aroused again so soon after coming— ah, there's no helping that your biology wasn't designed to allow it, and how tragically so!— you feel the stirrings of some beginnings of it at the command. To lick his boots, to be able to show your submission, your devotion to him, so beautifully, so erotically, the thing you've always dreamed. _Oh, Cilius, you're the gift that keeps on giving!_ The moan you let out then is more humanoid, but it doesn't seem to displease him, and, enthusiastically, you bend down, making sure to jut out your ass from behind you, and press your tongue to his shoe.

You take your sweet time flicking over it, make sure to pull out your tongue far enough for the most obscene expression to mark your face— it makes the process less comfortable and strains your jaw, but it means the painful throbbing of arousal, your oversensitive body and deflated cock protesting against your attempts to return to it, begin to spike up again. The bitter taste of your own cum and the foul taste of shoe leather are the sweetest syrup you've ever known, and you move beyond that spot, cover every single bit of it with his tongue, and, to your surprised delight, he does not protest.

He says nothing when you pull away and begin to stand back up, so you take this as a sign that the game's over. Not a bad way to cap it all off! You're content with _this_ little aftercourse for future alone-time material, and you can take care of this second oncoming hard-on later. There is a warm satisfaction running through your body, heart thumping and blood pounding still from the aftereffects of your orgasm, and a brief strain of discomfort from being in the same position for so long before the regenerative abilities kick in, nicely taking care of the stiffness in your joints.

You tuck yourself in, smooth out your clothes a little, clean yourself up best you can. You could keep his cum on your face forever, wear it like a brand for all eternity, but when his eyes flick towards you, you make a show of cleaning it up with your fingers and tongue, lapping up every single delicious, bitter, musky drop of it, smoothing it down across your face and licking over the smears on your lips, and hum deeply.

"Ah..." You let out a deep, content sigh. "That was _great,_ love. Seriously fantastic. Thanks."

"I didn't do it for you." He answers you, brusquely.

"Oh, I know. But it was fun, and I had a _great_ time, so who am I not to show my gratitude?" You flop down on the couch beside him, and he looks annoyed but does not complain when you nuzzle up next to him. "So," you say, conversationally. "Was it as good for you as it was for me?" He turns his head barely enough for you to see him fixing you with a pointed stare. "What?"

"I think that we can search all the skies and beyond, from the realm of the gods and to the Crimson Horizon itself, and not find a single creature that enjoys sex nearly as much as you."

He says it so dryly, but to you that's quite a high-grade compliment. "That's me!" You laugh. "I'm a man who knows to enjoy all aspects of life to the fullest."

"Not exactly a valuable virtue."

"Really, though. How was it? Dabbling in some good ol' sadomaso. It's a classic, you know?"

He stares at the window facing him from the other side of the room, blankly. "It was fine."

Okay, you're a _little_ offended at that? Or you would be with anyone else, but that answer is so like him. "Seriously? Just that? 'Fine'?"

"I don't share your tastes, Belial. The physical component was fine, and it was satisfying, but it wasn't the point. I thought it might be interesting to try and test out the practice for myself. What are you laughing about?"

You're not even sure where to _begin_ — you want to point out that you _saw_ him smiling, that you _know_ he was enjoying himself, but most of all— "You're going to try to pass _that_ off as— what, an experiment? As research?"

Cilius shrugs: "Not formally. But it was something I wanted to try out of curiosity rather than anything else."

Curiosity! Now isn't that just adorable? " _Really,_ now. So, tell me. What are your conclusions, Head Researcher? What have you found?"

"..." He pauses, and you see him searching for the words. "Sex is a rare topic of research where my understanding seems to decrease, rather than increase, with more data. It's irritating—" He pauses again. "Not even irritating. More than that. Baffling. To start at a point of limited understanding and only steadily progress downwards from there."

"Well, that's not much of a problem, is it? For your purposes, isn't the point you started from just enough? You've managed to create _me_ , after all, and I'm universally agreed to be the sexiest man or primal alive."

"Maybe not." He says, blatantly ignoring your boasting, not even groaning or sighing. "But I don't like it." He frowns. "...You really did actually come on command. That was a little surprising. Or did you just hold on and wait until I told you to? I'll admit I was impressed by your endurance and restraint. From you, that's unexpected."

You lean in to nuzzle your cheek against his own, and close your eyes in contentment. There's the smell of his hair again, and his skin is inexplicably smooth, his small wiry body soft. He's beautiful, perfect, exquisite, divine. And you will never get enough. You can't imagine ever getting enough, ever feeling less dizzy and awed.

"A little bit of edging, Cilius, is nothing to a man in love."

You open your eyes again, briefly, just in time to see his entirely unimpressed expression, as wonderful as every single other so long as it's on his face. But he does not reply, or move. He closes his eyes, and reclines his head back, against the couch, apparently accepting and surrendering himself to the fact that he'll have to tolerate your close proximity, at least for the moment.

And it occurs to you, looking at him, not for the first or last time, how much you love him. He is and isn't yours, but you're all his, in your entirety. You live for him, and kill for him, and would die for him. You would offer him your heart, your soul, your mind; you would empty out the contents of all that makes you, if he just asked, and dig deeper into your own flesh to offer more when nothing remains. You are with him everywhere he goes, and you do not go where he is not. And when one day he falls into hell, beautifully, chasing the way he does after all that is unspeakable, forbidden, and damned, you will jump right in after him, so that he does not burn alone.

**Author's Note:**

> I set out to write some quick self indulgent PWP because of some fanart I saw and then this got away from me... anyway, hi, I walked into Granblue like 5 years late with Starbucks but I really, really, really, really, and I mean _really_ love Belial.


End file.
